


His Eyes, Blue; His Hands, Strong

by Arcanista



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chewing Tobacco, M/M, Mid-Game, POV Dorian Pavus, POV Third Person Limited, Past Tense, Spoilers, Swearing, Tobacco use, briefly mean to josephine, contains homophobia as per the quest, no seriously swearing, no smut cadash just has a mouth like a sewer, spoilers for last resort of good men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What in the world could Dorian see in that vile little dwarf?</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Eyes, Blue; His Hands, Strong

**Author's Note:**

> By its nature, this fic leans heavily on original game text. My apologies; I wanted to contextualize for myself what was going on here in terms of the relationship. I think I found it.

An archery contest seemed like a fine excuse to start drinking before noon, so Dorian turned himself up unconscionably early to see who signed up. He didn't recognize most of them, soldiers and the like; one visiting noblewoman (the only well-dressed one of the lot), but it made for a pleasing view. There was something magical about the play of shoulder-muscles as these strapping young lads strung their bows (Was that Leliana's plan for this contest in the first place? She had a look about her, as she looked for a place to judge from). He had a lovely vantage point of the sign-up table, though likely he'd have to move once the festivities started.

Varric was nowhere in evidence; likely pouting over his pre-emptive disqualification. But he was hardly the only dwarf in the Inquisition who could handle a bow. There was that scout commander, and a few other soldiers.

And _there_ , swaggering like Dorian had never imagined a dwarf could, surrounded by the giggling teenage daughters of some Orlesian nobleman, was the Inquisitor.

Lord Cadash was a spectacularly unattractive man, ugly like Fereldan beer. His pallid hair, usually in an unkempt mop around Skyhold, had been slicked back like he wore out in the field. The problem with that was how it showed off his face. Craggy, banged-up from things far less benign than bar fights, too early in the day for the dots of frosty stubble to be showing.

Dorian had never seen a fully clean-shaven dwarf before him. Even asked once, one morning in camp, after the dwarf had put away his shaving mirror. He'd just laughed, this thick obscene sound, and said, "You seen my hair, Magpie?" (was that better or worse than 'Sparkler', Dorian wondered) "Slap a beard on me and I fucking look at least forty years older, you think I need that shit?"

So instead the Lord Inquisitor Cadash let the world see what a youthful dwarven face would look like if it had been through a meat grinder.

But his eyes were crystal blue in the sunglare. Another of his obscenities. They belonged to a beautiful man, tall and slender, with graceful hands. Knowing the Inquisitor, he probably plucked those eyes free of their original sockets himself.

Dorian made a disgruntled noise and pushed off the wall, going for a casual amble toward the dwarf's orbit.

"... so I says to the Dasher," he was saying in his rapid-fire patter, thick dwarven accent nearly unintelligable around all these Orlesian voices, "break his kneecaps? The fuck do you take me for? I'm a sniper, not a fucking smith. So Dasher goes, if I was paying you to be cute, I'd have had you killed for being an irredemable fuck-up years ago. You're a fucking resourceful dwarf. I don't care how you do it, just break his fucking kneecaps and get me my fucking money. So I have a good sit-down and think this over, 'cause I am fucking allergic to pain. So I say fuck it, and I put a brace of arrows through the dumb fucker's fucking knees. Poor schlub never missed a payment again, but I hear he don't fucking walk straight anymore."

He threw his head back and laughed, like it was the funniest thing in all Thedas. The girls around him gasped in shock, pink-cheeked and waving their fans. From behind Dorian, Josephine ran up. "Inquisitor, you mustn't--"

The Inquisitor flipped her off, in the dwarven style, with one finger. But to put it that way made the gesture seem so much more _banal_  than it actually was. There was something about the way he did it, the faint twist of his thick wrist, the way he put his elbow, his _back_  into it, but still added a subtle upthrust out of his hand. Somehow he conveyed experience and _specificity_  that elevated the gesture from merely rude to a perversely filthy experience. Josephine might have gasped in shock, but Dorian was too busy thinking shameful thoughts about the things that obscene gesture implied. The girls all broke and scattered; this at last had proved too much.

Dorian took their place, while the Inquisitor laughed. "You delight in scandalizing them," he said.

"I also like long walks on the beach and romantic poetry," said the Inquisitor, strapping on his arm-guard and stringing his bow. He made it look easy, though he'd also watched the dwarf laugh uproariously as Sera attempted the task and fail miserably. There certainly was an interesting play of muscles going on beneath the dwarf's already sweaty shirt.

"Do you really?" Dorian found himself absurdly curious. Certainly he didn't know what to make of the image.

"No." He waved Dorian along with him as he went to take his place in line to shoot. On the way, he spat off to the side, a horrific brown glob. He reached into a pouch, drew out some more of that hideous Antivan leaf, and packed it into his mouth. "I like cheap whiskey and hard fucks."

Was he _ogling_  Dorian? Or was that just his natural expression? If he was, did he mean it, or...? No, he liked to see people off-balance. He wouldn't give the lewd little man the satisfaction. The lewd... muscular... oh, this was just disgusting. He didn't _fancy_ the man, did he? This was worse than his mounting suspicions about the beer back in Haven. When Dorian didn't rise to the bait, the dwarf just laughed, making a dismissive wave. "I like you," he said, chewing. "C'mon, help me kill some time manhandling the kids' rounds."

Somehow, Dorian found himself utterly speechless, but trotted alongside the Inquisitor. "What do you mean by that?" he ventured, as the dwarf found a spot, started stretching out his arms. He'd take the compliment from a prettier man, but frankly, he wanted to know the nature of the Inquisitor's interest.

"I mean this isn't really a contest, you know? Well, it is a contest. For second place. Maybe third, if Sera's on her game. She's a fuck-up. Knows how to shoot, though." He met Dorian's eyes and just smiled. At least he wasn't missing any teeth, though the stains clinging to the ones Dorian could see made him wonder if that would help. "Still, it's a fun day."

Dorian bobbed his head, allowing him the point. _That_  sort of like, then. Well, he was devilishly attractive, after all. Charming. Perhaps even horrifying dwarfs could recognize a thing like that. In order to talk about anything else at all, Dorian asked, "I thought you and Sera would get on well."

Gleaming blue eyes rolled halfway back into his skull. Pity. The Inquisitor shook his head, spat into the dirt. "Sera's a fucking amateur. An amateur when what I need are fucking professionals. Going to get a lot more people killed than she ever saves. Talks a big game but she doesn't know the first fucking thing about how to do it. Don't wanna learn, neither. She says she cares about the fuckin' 'little people' but she don't any more than the people she wants to take shots at. You wanna know how I know that?"

The mounting venom in the Inquisitor's voice took Dorian a little aback. "Could I stop you from telling me?"

"'The little people'," he said in a twisted falsetto and the worst attempt at a Fereldan accent Dorian had ever heard. "'People'. Y'know what she never calls 'em? 'We'. 'Us'." The condemnation in his tone strikes like daggers into the dirt. "She don't think she's one of 'em. She's just taken it upon herself to _rescue_  them. Deep down, thinks she's better than they are." He shrugged, and moved up his place in line. "So she's a hypocrite. She ain't the only one. Fucking everyone does it. But she acts like she don't. Insists that she don't. Talks about making things better. Put her on the spot, in a place where she can do what she says doing? Then what's she do, eh?" The Inquisitor stretched out slowly, bent down to touch his toes. "Not nothing. Worse than nothing. She gets in the way of any fucking person who _will_ do it. Talks about revolution. Just wants stasis. Needs to learn to look in the fucking mirror at herself, see what's there. No other way."

"That's... not what I expected," said Dorian. What _had_  he expected? Dorian fiddled with a strap at his wrist. What was it about this horrid little dwarf that tangled his tongue the way no one else did? "Why keep her around at all, then?"

The Inquisitor laughed, then strapped a leather glove onto his right hand. "I'm never what you expect. I want her hands where I can see them. No point in killing her. And since I know what she's about, she can be kept harmless. Maybe one day she learns. Maybe not. Fuck if I care. I ain't her dad. But I'm a _compassionate_  fucking person." He spat into the dirt, precisely. "In my way."

Dorian didn't see it. But he wouldn't put it past the Inquisitor-- _he has a name, idiot_ \-- to just lie about the whole prospect. "How kind of you," he said, doing his damndest to come off breezy. But he was good at breezy. "I can't imagine how you are at birthday presents."

Cadash chortled and tested the draw of his bow a few times. He made it look trivial. Ahead, Leliana called his name. Dorian lingered behind, then moved away to watch. Or listen, as it happened; when the Inquisitor took his place, he looked right over at Leliana. "The fuck is this shit? We're starting here? I could _piss_  to the target from here!"

Leliana just laughed; for some reason she delighted in the Inquisitor's antics. "Please do not," she called to him. "We've used all the grass seed we have."

There was a lot of showman to the Inquisitor. It didn't show when they were in battle. He and Dorian were often poised near to each other then, at a safe enough distance while one of the more death-defying types distracted the enemy. In a battle, Lord Cadash's shots were expedient, precise, wickedly confident. He wasted no motions, when it counted. Here, in front of everyone, he flourished. Arrows spun across the back of his hand before he nocked them. He shot with his off-hand. He and Sera engaged in a horrifying flurry of insults back and forth that was so putrescent and so explicit Dorian was half-convinced it counted as some form of oral sex. He shot an _apple_  to his target.

And, you know, from behind, when you couldn't see his face, the view wasn't half-bad. Dorian could certainly appreciate the way his back muscles played beneath the increasingly sweat-soaked shirt. Was his face really that bad, anyway? It had character. Oh, no, this was a disgusting line of thought.

When it was all over, the Inquisitor... waved off the prize. Refused it outright. Dorian wasn't sure if he should be surprised or not. Certainly he didn't expect it, heh. No, he wandered off to talk to... was that Mother Giselle, of all people? Well, this _had_  to be good, given the dwarf's rather public views on religion. Dorian went to get some more wine, and tried to figure out if there was somewhere he could eavesdrop without looking like he was.

As it turned out, he didn't have to. The Inquisitor looked up from some sheet of paper the priestess had given him, expression like a stormcloud. There was an obvious moment of hesitation, before he folded it once, twice, then barked, loudly, "Dorian! Get over here!"

How did he know Dorian was still around? No matter. He scuttled over, only to hear Giselle sputtering wildly. "You called, Inquisitor?" said Dorian, languidly striking a pose. One hand dangled over his hip. He could put on a show too, and there was obviously some of one still going on.

The Inquisitor sucked his teeth noisily, then spat, the glob landing just far enough from Mother Giselle's feet to make a point. He said, holding the folded paper with its broken seal straight up, "Seems there's some confusion round here," he said, enunciating every single word. "Some of your mail got misdirected to the chantry mother here. She was kind enough to ask me to pass it on to you."

"Inquisitor, _no_!" she began. "I only meant--"

"I know _damn_  well what you meant," Dorian had never seen the dwarf look so angry. But as hot as his voice ran, his eyes were icy blue in his fury. "Well, now you know what I have to say to that, don't you? You think you can walk up to me and lie to my face about your intentions? Ask me sometime about the chantry mother we used as a contact. That fetching little hat is not the shield you think it is. Now get out of my sight before I decide running damage control with the Chantry is less offensive to me than you are."

Strange how the minute that he stopped using the word "fuck" as a comma his threats took on a venomous sincerity. There was something undoubtedly impressive about that, at least. "What is this all about?" Dorian asked. Giselle took off at a dead run. "Is delivering death threats over a piece of mail truly going to help our Chantry problems?"

"You fuckin' think the Chantry gives one drop of Andraste's piss about her?" said the Inquisitor, dropping registers down through about forty different social classes like a boulder through silk. "They ain't a big fan of her fuckin' sanctimony. But nah, I ain't gonna need t'make good on it. But, shit, she ain't why I called you over." He was flipping the letter through his fingers now, turning it over the back of his Fade-touched hand in a series of deft one-handed maneuvers.

"That is," said Dorian, looking down at the letter. A sick sinking feeling began to curl up around his boots. "What is it, something naughty? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?" The Inquisitor smiled at that, but it never reached his gleaming eyes. Were they-- sad? No, of course not. Not him.

"It ain't," said the Inquisitor, bringing the page to a stop in his hands. It almost seemed like hesitation, before he said, "Not here. C'mon. I know a spot." He clamped his meaty hand around Dorian's right wrist, and started to tug him away.

The Inquisitor stopped along the way to lean his head under a pump, rinsing his mouth out, which was not a sight Dorian really wanted to see. He fumbled around in a pocket, producing what looked like some sort of boiled-sugar candy. As Cadash unwrapped the twist of paper it was kept inside, the overwhelming smell of mint assaulted Dorian's nostrils.

The candy was audibly rattling around the dwarf's teeth still when he pulled Dorian into a quiet little nook behind the tavern. Finally, he lifted the letter, rotated it one-handed towards Dorian, and said, "It's from your dad."

Dorian ignored the letter, compressed his lips into a single tight line. "From my father. I see. And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?"

Cheeks sucked inward around the mint. What he spoke was the worst of what Dorian feared. "A meeting."

Dorian snatched the still-proffered letter from the dwarf's powerful hand. The mint stilled, and the Inquisitor set down his bow and quiver before leaning against the wall, pressing two fingers to his nose, shutting his eyes. Dorian flipped open the letter, skimmed it once, then gave it a second glance, all the while letting a low growl mount in his throat.

"'I know my son'?" Dorian lowered the letter in a single swift motion. The Inquisitor opened his eyes, set those tiny aquamarine gems on him. The look gave Dorian the breath to continue. "What my _father_  knows of me would barely fill a thimble. This is so-- typical. I'm willing to bet this "retainer" is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter."

The dwarf's hands flicked a little, curling into loose fists then fingers emerging one by one as if counting something. He got to four, before asking, "Would he?"

A moment to give the idea some proper thought. "No," Dorian concluded. "Although I wouldn't put it past him. Let's go. Let's meet this so-called "family retainer". If it's a trap, we escape and kill everyone. You're good at that." The Inquisitor gave a self-satisfied smile, though it wasn't intended as flattery. "If it's not, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his 'wit's end'."

The Inquisitor relaxed his hands, scratched the back of his head. "I don't know what's going on between you all. But I know when things've gone ugly. Bad blood between you?"

Dorian forced a laugh. "Interesting turn of phrase. But you're correct. They don't care for my choices, nor I for theirs."

There was something too sympathetic by half in the crinkled smile. "What, all this 'cause you left? They pick out a girl you didn't like?"

"That too." Was there subtle emphasis on the word 'girl'? No, Lord Cadash was many things, but subtle? Never.

"Redcliffe's not that far," said the dwarf, evidently electing not to pry further. "Can be there and back inside a day if we push it. Riddle me this, then: how much muscle should we bring?"

Now _there_  was the dwarfish thug Dorian had chosen to invest his hopes and dreams for a better world into. "Just you should be fine. He'll be expecting me with Mother Giselle - Maker only knows why-- and off my guard. We'll have twice the advantage."

"I'll have Leliana go put a bird on it," said the Inquisitor. "Let him know you're on your way, innocent as the proverbial maiden on her wedding day. Head out in the morning then." He pushed off the wall, bent to gather his things. There was something distant in his eyes, clouded blue in the shade. "Don't put around how far outta my way I'm going on this. It'll do piss-all for my reputation. Look like I'm goin' soft. Don't get too drunk tonight. But if you gotta, hit me up. I got some stuff I been saving for emergencies. I figure this counts as good as anything else."

Dorian rubbed his forehead, then crumpled the letter. "Thank you, Inquisitor," he said.

"Kharis," he said, slinging the bow onto his back. He started back out into the yard. "Don't worry 'bout it, sugar-lump. We'll get this straightened out." And like that he was gone.

 _I am a_ compassionate _fucking person. In my way._

* * *

They left their horses at the gates of town, and walked side-by-side down the winding path. Dorian had to admit the dwarf-- _Kharis_ \-- cut a dangerous figure. A human with a build like his would be downright hulking. And here he was, walking forward with an inherent _force_ , like he was wading through tar, in a long leather coat, cut loose at the shoulders for easy movement. Black, to hide the bloodstains, and there were more than a few. He had left his bow on the horse when they handed them over to the stablehand. But Kharis bristled with knives instead. In his boots, in his sleeves, one visibly strapped to his calf, all sized for him. But those seemed all for show. Especially compared to the two wickedly curved knives he had crossed at the small of his back.

Halfway to the inn, and he hovered his hands over his pockets, then patted at them. Like he was hesitating over something. Then he barked out a laugh, went for the leaf. He packed it into his cheek, and said, "You can change your mind, y'know. I ain't gonna think less'f you."

That steeled Dorian's resolve, somehow. "No. I can do this."

"All right," Kharis said, pausing before the door. "You want I should kick the door in? I'm good at that."

"No," said Dorian, and stepped inside, closely followed by the preternaturally silent dwarf. So, there was only one set of footsteps audible in the suspiciously empty tavern. "Uh-oh. Nobody's here. This doesn't bode well."

Kharis lingered behind. Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian saw the Inquisitor shift just so, cross his arms behind his back. He looked remarkably casual for a someone putting his hands on his weapons. He started chewing audibly, almost marking out a beat.

"Dorian."

The voice was the one Dorian had dreaded. One he'd hoped to escape. He turned to face the man he'd in part left Tevinter to escape. "Father." There he was,a on the stairs, of course at a height advantage. "So the whole story about the 'family retainer' was just... what? A smoke screen?" He'd hoped to at least believe that much.

"Then you were told," his father strode forward. But kept his distance. If he was surprised, no, he didn't let it show. He never let it show. "I apologize for the deception, Inquisitor. I never intended for _you_  to be involved."

"Of course not," said Dorian, letting a lifetime's worth of-- of everything mount in his voice. "Magister Pavus couldn't come to Skyhold and be seen with the Dread Inquisitor. What would people think?" He didn't dare look away from his father to see, but he imagined Kharis smiling, showing his horrific teeth. The thought let him ask, "Then what _is_  'this', exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?" The anger grew thicker on every word.

Dorian's father just sighed, looked past him to Kharis, as if for some sort of support. "This is how it has always been."

Perfectly on cue, the dwarf spat. Almost discreetly, but the gesture was clear, noisy, visceral. "You always lyin' t'get him to come home then, too? Don't fuck with me, _Magister_." The last with almost pitch-perfect Tevene intonation, somehow. "Dorian got every right to be furious."

"You don't know the half of it!" Dorian whirled on Kharis, looked down toward him. Saw him chewing obviously on that awful mess. "Ah, but maybe you should."

"Dorian, there's no need to--" it was an attempt at a fatherly command. But he had relinquished those rights long ago.

"I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves." There. He said it. Easier than he thought it would be, all told. Kharis looked up at him, no expression evident on his rumpled face. But there was something in his snow-blue eyes, angry in the candle-light. A question? Looking for a go-ahead? Dorian made as much of a nod as he dared.

Dorian didn't know what to expect. But Kharis' languid drawl of, "Gonna need you t'explain that to me, friend." There was a faint, encouraging tilt to his lips.

It was something to sieze on, drain the blood out of his father's face, is what it was. "Did I stutter? Men, and the company thereof. As in sex. Surely you've heard of it."

A few more moments spent on that disgusting chewing. Another squelching gob loosed onto the floor. Stacatto precision, this time. How many voices could one dwarf hold? "A concept with which I am _intimately_  familiar."

"No!" Dorian laid the mock surprise on as thickly as he could imagine. "The Herald of Andraste? I am shocked and scandalized."

"Sarcastic fucker."

Dorian managed a smile. "You're not exactly subtle, oh Lord Inquisitor."

But the impromptu plan backfired, just a little bit. There was no hiding the disgust on his father's face, or how it magnified when he looked upon the Inquisitor. Who, naturally, responded by another brown glob spat on the floor. "I should have known that's what this was about."

Dorian whirled on him. "No. No, you don't get to make those assumptions. You know _nothing_  about the Inquisitor." Sometimes it felt like he didn't, either. He was never what Dorian expected. Not in word, not in deed.

"This is not what I wanted," said his father.

"I'm _never_  what you wanted, Father; or had you forgotten?" he let the words go like tiny lightning bolts, meant to pierce and shred.

"So, what. Do Tevinters not fuck each other up the ass, or what? Or is that reserved for your wives?" His hands were still behind his back. Dorian couldn't tell if this was genuine interest or some further attempt at soothing him, in his strange manner.

But Dorian was more than willing to explain in explicit detail. "It's only a problem if you're trying to live up to an impossible standard. Every Tevinter family is intermarrying to distill the perfect mage, the perfect body, the perfect mind. The perfect _leader_. It means every perceived flaw-- every _aberration_ \-- is deviant and shameful. It must be _hidden_."

And Dorian's father just let his head fall forward, as if he was only realizing now that he'd committed some sort of grave injustice. Well, that was too little, too late, wasn't it?

"So that's what all this is about," said the dwarf, flat as Dorian had ever heard. "Who you _fuck_."

Dorian's father's hands lifted, in protest, or attempt at concilliation? "Dorian, please. If you'll only listen to me."

For the first time in a very long time, Dorian approached his father. So much anger bubbled up inside him, curling out after having been pent up for so long. "Why? So you can spout more convenient lies? _He_  taught me to hate blood magic. 'The resort of the weak mind.' Those are _his_  words." No, he couldn't stand being so close anymore. He stepped back. "But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life? You tried to-- _change_  me!" Were those tears growing in the corners of his eyes? But Dorian could hold them back. As he always did.

And then it came, the oldest and the worst of the lies. "I only wanted what was best for you."

"You wanted what was best for _you_! For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!" Dorian turned away from his father. He would not be seen crying. He leaned over a table, head down.

Kharis strode up beside him, boots thumping noisily. "This was a fuckin' mistake," he said, voice pitched too gently for the violent words. "C'mon. Let's go." Hesitation, then he set a hand on Dorian's elbow. The hand that had gripped like a vice only yesterday seemed as light as a feather.

It was enough for Dorian to compose himself. He straightened, said, "Let's," and turned to the door with the Inquisitor.

But just in front of the door, Kharis paused. Dorian watched his lips work silently, forming syllables he couldn't read. Another of those blink-and-you'll-miss-it moments of hesitation, before the dwarf _rocked_  back on his sharp bootheels and spun, turning to face Dorian's father. His eyes gleamed acid blue in the torchlight, and from that sewer of a mouth emerged schoolbook-flawless, if archaic, Tevene. "But lo will I take up this blade which ye have cast aside, and I will exalt it. When ye see it next, ye shall know it not. And if it would permit itself to be raised against ye, we none of us may say: e'en the Maker knows it not."

And then he turned and walked out, Dorian close behind. They were halfway out of town before he could breathe. When would a toady little man like Kharis have studied Tevene? Let alone classical-era playwrights?

"I didn't fuck the pronunciation, did I?" he asked, fiddling with his right glove. "Kinda a hard language t'practice at the best of times, round these parts. And that shit ain't conversational Tevene for babies. 'Pardon me, where is the piss-hole', and all that."

Dorian let out a strained laugh. "No, no you didn't." But that was all he could manage. There was so much and so little he wanted to say right now.

They changed horses before they left, and spoke but little. Kharis changed the leaf out for the mints when they paused by a stream. Perhaps halfway through their ride, he said, "When someone thinks all you're good for is standin' around looking dangerous, they'll think you're too fuckin' stupid to know your own language. Let alone theirs."

It was easy to cling to such an innocuous conversation. "How many languages _do_  you speak?"

"Besides trade-tongue? Only Antivan, at least as well as I'd like. I've been boning up on Orlesian since this shit started, but you know how much stuff I've been studying? Barely got time between all these kings and crowns and history fucking books. If I didn't play dumb in front of them, I wouldn't embarass myself. Enough Rivaini to tell if there's an ambush coming. Shit, even enough Qunlat to make out what they're planning on searching next." He scratched the back of his head. "I can tell an elf I fucked his father."

Dorian flicked a glance toward the dwarf. "His father? You've never told an elf you fucked his mother?"

A long, long silence then, just hooves on the road. Finally, he said, "Not even once."

"And there's Tevene, of course," said Dorian. He didn't want to think about the other anymore. Not right now, anyway.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. That's handy too," said Kharis, fumbling for another mint. "And I like plays."

"Good to know," said Dorian. "Just the epics?"

"More than that," he said, fingers flexing in the reins. "My Tevene's real rusty though. Might be worthwhile t'practice. Shit though. I got plenty of stuff I need t'be learning."

Almost, Dorian offered to help. But no. He wasn't ready to yet. Soon, perhaps. But not with his father's voice still ringing in his ears. But that was why he didn't ask, wasn't it? He was smoother than he seemed. Instead, he just looked at the dwarf, who rode his horse like he didn't fit. Hair greased back, and a battered, scarred face. Horrible breath, even with all those mints. He probably farted in bed. His eyes, shining blue in the sunset.

Dorian shook his head, tried to think about anything else for the rest of the ride. His thoughts kept turning to those rough hands. To the sort of 'compassion' borne by a dwarf who left disaster in his wake as surely as anything else.

* * *

Later, in the library, Dorian was looking blankly out the window. Kharis approached, bootheels sharp enough on the ground for Dorian to hear him coming, then abruptly going silent once he knew he'd been noticed. Dorian glanced at the Inquisitor. His hair looked like he'd actually combed it, this time. "He's a good man, my father," Dorian said hollowly. "Deep down. He taught me... principle is important. He cares for me in his way... but won't ever change. I can't forgive him for what he did. I _won't_."

"What'd he try, exactly? Change you?" the Inquisitor leaned against one of Dorian's bookshelves, careful not to disturbe a thing.

"Out of desperation." It was too easy to talk about. "I wouldn't put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside." Dorian looked back out the window, sightlessly. "He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me... acceptable. I found out. I left."

Kharis made a low, dark whistle. "Shit," he said. "That wouldn't-- would that have _worked_?"

Dorian glanced back to the Inquisitor. Something was softer about his face from this angle, and his eyes were palest blue in the dim light. "Maybe. It could also have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn't really want to go through with it. If he had... I can't even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn't like that Dorian." He lifted his hand. Pressed the back of it to his eyes. Just damp. Nothing more.

"You okay?"

"No. Not really." But he owed Kharis more than that. He turned from the window, all the way. "Thank you for bringing me out there. It wasn't what I expected, but... it's something. Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display."

Kharis flexed his Fade-marked hand. He made a smile that would have been sweet, on a different face. "Not less. More, if possible."

Still, it meant-- Dorian already heard himself laughing it off. "The things you say."

"I mean it," he said, looking up to Dorian. "Shit. Shit, this shit I ain't good at. In the Carta-- so nobody _cared_  what you stuck your dick in. But if it ain't something usual? That's something _someone_  wants t'know. To grab hold of, to exploit. Me, I damn near yelled it from the fucking rooftops. Made it too obvious t'use. But somea the others? Yeah. Yeah, they kept that shit bottled up deep down. I seen what it does to people."

"My father never understood," murmured Dorian. "Living a lie... it festers inside of you, like poison. You have to fight for what's inside your heart. Like that, I suppose."

Kharis fiddled with an empty twist of paper, spreading and slackening it between both hands. He hesitated just a moment. "Yeah," he said hoarsely, voice untouched by any of his countless affects. He stepped in close, reaching with one hand to pull Dorian down to his level, the other settling on his side. Kharis' hands felt so strong against Dorian's body even through all the layers of clothes. And then he kissed Dorian, self-conscious in a way somehow absurdly fit the vulgar little man. His eyes, wide open, drinking in Dorian's face as if stealing this moment away for himself.

A second kiss, more confident now as the two of them stripped away their hesitations. But Kharis' mouth was adamantly shut, though his breath came hot onto Dorian's upper lip.

Dorian broke it off first, stepped away from the dwarf and his archer's hands, his thief's hands. His wit returned well enough to say, "I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor."

"More than fire," said Kharis, still all low and throaty. He looked away, shoved a fresh mint into his mouth.

"At any rate," Dorian said, stepping far enough back to regain his composure. "Time to drink myself into a stupor. It's been that sort of a day. Join me sometime, if you've a mind?"

"Yeah," said the Inquisitor, straightening his back. His own composure, in his way, had returned as well. "More'n drinks sometime, I hope. I'll see you, sugar-cube."

And as the dwarf walked off, boots thumping on the ground, Dorian touched his tongue to his lips. _Mint_ , he thought, bending to pick up an abandoned paper shell. _Mint. He tastes like mint._


End file.
